A Day of Firsts
by pruplup4
Summary: The first time Sherlock meets Molly, nothing of importance happens. Rated T for mentions of drugs and some autopsy stuff.


Just another typical first meeting fic! Let me know what you think.

* * *

The first time Sherlock meets Molly, nothing of importance happens. The earth goes on spinning as it always has. There is a distinct lack of thunder or lightning strikes, and time plods along in its usual discreet manner. In short, perfectly normal, routine — even mundane. Years later, if pressed to remember that specific moment, Sherlock will only raise his eyebrows in derision, as if to say, _Of all the questions you could ask,_ that's _the one you choose_?

It takes place at the morgue, naturally. The case itself is forgettable, besides the fact that it is the first murder Lestrade gives him since he finished rehab a month ago, and the first violent murder he's gotten to see up close in an official capacity. Meeting Molly Hooper is an incidental occurrence.

He gets a call from Lestrade while playing violin one midsummer afternoon.

"It's a murder, actually." Lestrade's voice is somewhat muffled; he never has time for a break, given his status as the only semi-intelligent member of the force, so he's definitely eating a donut at his desk in lieu of luncheon. "We'll have to get down to the morgue at St. Barts. Think you can handle — I mean, you up for it?"

Well. It's been long enough that Sherlock can have a little fun with the topic of his addiction. "You mean, can I resist the urge to steal morphine from the labs and get high as a kite?" He pauses for effect. "If you insist."

"Come off it," Lestrade replies affably, but there's palpable relief in his voice. It was Lestrade, after all, that forced Sherlock into rehab in the first place. "Right then. I'll be over in a mo'."

In the cab, Lestrade presses something into Sherlock's palm. "Just as a precaution," he says. "Since you're visiting for a case, I'll be with you, but I got you a visitor's badge so that you have your own access, if you'd like."

Sherlock examines the badge with mild interest, then rummages around in his coat and produces a police ID. "So I don't need this anymore, then?"

Lestrade glances down at it, then balks. "Is that — Dammit, Sherlock!" He pats down his pockets, then scrubs his face with the heel of his hand. "Yeah, you don't need to pick my pocket anymore, thanks."

Sherlock shrugs guilelessly and hands over the ID. Lestrade makes a show of tucking it into an inner pocket of his coat, then turns what he probably imagines to be a stern gaze onto Sherlock.

"Now listen here," he begins, in what is apparently his 'I'm an important Detective Inspector' voice, "I know you're an odd sort and you can't help your general wankery-type demeanor —"

"That's not a word."

"Case in point," Lestrade tosses back, barely batting an eye. "The crux of it is that Dr. Hooper is a nice sort and I don't want my lab privileges to get revoked because of some twatted stunt you pull with bacteria or whatnot, so help me God. Just. Be normal."

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at Lestrade. "When am I ever anything but?"

The stunned silence is truly deafening.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Calm down, Lestrade, simply being facetious," he says bracingly, clasping the older man's shoulder in what he clearly thinks is a reassuring gesture. Instead, Lestrade only winces; just weeks out of rehab, Sherlock holds a wiry strength he can't quite yet control. "I've affected a normal countenance quite successfully before. Humans are a remarkably predictable species, when it comes down to it."

Lestrade does not deign to reply, though his mournful expression is enough to tell Sherlock he isn't very hopeful.

When they get to the hospital, they go straight to the elevator and take it all the way down to the last floor. Sherlock, usually a reserved, verging on doleful man, can't help but lighten up as the elevator descends, feeling a sort of childish excitement when he thinks of all the interesting things he could get up to down here.

The elevator opens to a deserted, poorly-lit corridor leading to the morgue at the end of it. As they walk towards the doors at the end of the hall, Sherlock peers through the glass on some of the doors, examining the labs and equipment on display.

He shoots Lestrade a sideways glance. "What exactly do I have access to here?" He asks, eyeing what looks to be a new mass spectrophotometer. He keeps his voice carefully casual, but Lestrade is not fooled.

"Whatever Dr. Hooper allows us," he replies in a stern tone. His eyes dart about, as if afraid someone will see them. "You are not to touch anything that is not expressly given to you, do you hear me?"

"I do have some idea of social propriety, you know," Sherlock deadpans. He pulls out his mobile and begins tapping away at it suspiciously. "I understand you lack children of your own and need to push your paternal instincts somewhere, but my parents covered the manners bit already, I'm afraid."

"Could've fooled me," Lestrade snaps, trying to sneak a glance at Sherlock's mobile screen. "And you've _met_ my daughter, you dolt."

Sherlock gazes into the distance with a blank stare before it clicks. "Ah, yes. Anna, wasn't it? She's flunking maths, by the way. Could tell by the indentations on her thumb. I would suggest a sit down with dear old Dad to sort out her feelings about the divorce."

Lestrade actually turns his head to stare at Sherlock in horror. "Divorce?"

Sherlock glances sideways at Lestrade before _tsk_ ing to himself. "Ah, just a separation, I see. My apologies, Inspector. Still stands, though."

Lestrade shakes his head, looking rattled. "Just… _Behave_. All right?"

He shoots Sherlock a significant look before opening one of the swinging doors to the morgue.

The morgue is a stark place. Low tables of steel are scattered here and there, along with wheeled carts laden with scalpels, scissors, and sundry medical implements in preparation for autopsy. One of them is occupied with a cadaver shaped parcel, covered by a thick white sheet. The far wall holds a row of refrigerated cabinets and lockers. To the right, one glass window running the length of the room looks out into an observation gallery, and underneath this window crouches a small woman, absorbed in a search of a cabinet filled with medical implements.

Lestrade clears his throat loud enough that the woman glances over her shoulder, then springs to her feet. "Detective Inspector! Right on time!" Her smile is so wide and welcoming that despite his worry for his strange companion, Lestrade can't help but return it.

"Call me Greg," he says. She beams in response, but before she can reply, she notices Sherlock and comes to a halt.

"Ah, right. This is Sherlock Holmes. He's —," Lestrade shakes his head, unsure how to finish that sentence, and makes a tired sweeping gesture between them before continuing. "Anyway, Dr. Hooper."

"Molly," she corrects. She walks over and sticks her hand out to Sherlock, her expression affable. "Are you working for the police, then?"

Both Sherlock and Lestrade snort. "We bring him in on cases, sometimes," Lestrade tells her.

"When they're out of their depth," Sherlock adds, ignoring Lestrade's huff of displeasure.

Molly looks back and forth between them, her smile frozen in an awkward confusion. She looks down, realizes her unshaken hand is still outstretched, and tucks it behind her back with a small cough. "Right, well, pleased to make your acquaintance!"

Sherlock looks her up and down. His first impression is correct — she is a small woman, made to look even more petite by an overly large lab coat, shapeless clothing, and a pair of giant lab goggles around her neck. Her hair is long and chestnut-colored, pulled at the nape of her neck into what was likely a very pretty braid at one point, but has now dissolved into a thick, misshapen tangle.

After an awkwardly long silence, Sherlock blinks, then raises an eyebrow in Lestrade's direction. "Are you waiting for something?"

Lestrade closes his eyes, then looks to Molly with a pained smile. "After you, Dr. Hooper."

She waves a hand. "Please, it's Molly." She leads them over to the body while talking over her shoulder. "Winona Smith, 38, died of a single blow to the head from behind. She has some marks on her upper body that I haven't been able to identify. I've also found an unidentified substance in her lungs that I ran through the lab. From first glance, looks like a vegetable alkaloid that may have —"

Before she can go on, Sherlock leans close to the body, then immediately zeroes in on the right wrist and whips out his pocket lens. Molly notices and steps closer, tucking some hair behind her ear. "Ah, you've seen it already! Yeah, weird little thing she's got. Initially I thought it was just a tattoo, but then —"

"A gang symbol," Sherlock cuts in smoothly, straightening up. He tucks his pocket lens back into his greatcoat and frowns at the rest of the body. "From the Red Dragons — I believe your colleague Gregson in Drug Crimes headed the investigation that led to their dismantling, Lestrade. It was all over the news, perhaps a month ago?"

Lestrade nods in recognition.

"This mark indicates that the wearer is a menial member, likely a drug runner of some kind, not much importance. She has been doing work for them for some time, at least three to four years, but no more than a decade." Sherlock conducts a quick investigation of the rest of the body, muttering lowly to himself as he does so. Molly watches him in wide-eyed fascination as he crouches close to the woman's neck and inhales deeply, then straightens up again, looking thoughtful.

"Smells like jasmine, as I suspected. I think you'll find that the murder was committed by a Chinese man at least 6 feet tall, who is involved with the recently dissolved drug ring."

Lestrade is unsurprised, having seen Sherlock's methods before, but when Sherlock glances over at Molly, she is completely flabbergasted, her mouth comically open. When he quirks an eyebrow at her, she goes red and shuts her jaw.

Sherlock sighs and clasps his hands behind his back. "You have questions."

Caught off-guard by his directness, Molly sputters wordlessly for a moment, but gathers herself and nods. "Yes… um, how…? That is, could you explain what you did there? I'm afraid I didn't follow... any of that."

He shrugs. "It's a fairly simple conclusion, really —"

"He says that," Lestrade interjects, giving Molly a commiserating look, "but it rarely ever is, for the rest of us humans."

Molly smiles politely at him, but her gaze quickly slides back to Sherlock, who continues as if there was no interruption. "I make it a point to keep up with the rituals of the various criminal classes of the city, and the symbol was immediately apparent as the brand given to drug runners of a specific faction of the recently dissolved Red Dragons, a Chinese drug society that attempted to emulate the patterns of more mature and well-developed triads, or Chinese organized crime. However, due to infighting and a lack of organization, as well as competition from these older gangs, the Red Dragons ended up dissolving acrimoniously, as Lestrade's colleague Gregson could no doubt recount in detail. I could tell that she had been a part of the Red Dragons for at least three to four years, but no more than ten, because of the wear and tear."

He produces his pocket lens once more and hands it over, motioning for Molly to look. She examines the indicated marks as Sherlock continues. "I have also made it a point to study tattoos and how various factors affect their appearances over time. Of course, such detailed analysis requires some more research, but it is possible to make some cursory assessments at first glance. The fact that this mark has healed so that the skin surrounding it is uniform in appearance tells me that it is certainly not recent, but there is no stretching or scarring, which says that the tattoo was inked approximately within the last ten years."

Molly straightens up and hands the pocket lens back to him. "But how do you know it's been at least three to four years? Surely you can't pinpoint the exact age without further research."

Sherlock points again to the mark. "See this leaf imprint right beneath the flower? That indicates that Ms. Smith received it before the leaf was removed from the tattoo design. If you were to look at the mark of drug runners initiated into the gang within the last couple of years, you would find only a small, uncolored poppy. Much less noticeable. That redesign took place in either 2003 or 2004 — I have been unable to pinpoint the exact year in my research, thus the somewhat hazy timeline."

Molly nods, but her brow is still furrowed in thought. "What about the jasmine scent? And the profile of the killer — how do you know that it's a six foot tall Chinese man?"

Sherlock moves behind the body and crouches near the head of the table, sniffing her neck once more, then darts to the other end to sniff her hands and her calves. Molly glances at Lestrade, who only shrugs and waves his hands, as if to say, He does this all the time. "Just needed to make sure — and indeed, there is only the scent evident around her neck and hands. The Red Dragons deal with cocaine in its powdered form, which smells somewhat sweet and floral, with medicinal undertones. It's a fairly heady scent, not unlike gasoline."

He pauses and his eyes dim as he gets lost in a thought. Lestrade hesitates, then reaches out to tap him on the shoulder. "You alright, mate? We don't have to —"

Sherlock shakes his head roughly and waves him off, the motion jerky. "Don't be daft, Lestrade, I was just — thinking." Lestrade quirks an eyebrow, but does not mention the fact that Sherlock never stops in the middle of a deduction to _think_. "The point is that the purer the cocaine, the sweeter its scent. The Red Dragons often added jasmine-scented compounds to their mixes to mask the chemical undertones and give the illusion that their product was purer than it was, which incidentally was what led to their downfall. It appears that Ms. Smith handled the product fairly often — maybe even partook herself — if the scent was on her hands and neck. Did you find any signs of cocaine abuse in your examination?"

He directs this last question at Molly, who grabs a clipboard off of a cart next to the examination table and rifles through it. "I'd made note of it as a possibility, due to signs of inflammation of the heart muscle and damage to the aorta. There was also some kidney damage that could have been caused by cocaine usage, but —"

"It seems that Ms. Smith found herself at the wrong end of the drug trade, after tippling from the boss one too many times," Sherlock cuts in. The rest of Molly's sentence fades into mumbles, and her shoulders hunch over, embarrassed. "Regardless, the theory I find most plausible, out of a possible eight —"

Lestrade swipes at his brow, looking harassed. "We've been in here ten minutes! How do you already have eight theories?"

"It isn't my fault that you do not observe what I do, Detective," Sherlock drawls with apparent contempt, but there is a hint of a smile on both men's faces. Molly looks back and forth between them, sensing a kind of exasperated affection beneath the surface. "What I was saying was that I believe the most plausible theory is that Ms. Smith was murdered by an assassin dispatched by the rival faction of what remains of the Red Dragons. May I see the back of the head, please?"

Lestrade affects an exaggerated show of surprise at the politeness of Sherlock's tone, which Sherlock ignores, fixing his gaze on Molly's hands as she gently turns the body over. Even with most of the blood and viscera cleared away, it isn't a pretty sight — part of the skull is missing, and the rest of the woman's scalp is badly damaged. Neither Sherlock nor Molly react, but Lestrade makes a face before composing himself.

Sherlock motions to the center of the wound. "I gather this is the area that sustained the most damage?" Molly nods. "As you probably can confirm, the downwards direction indicates the blow came from a considerable height. Considering Ms. Smith is herself around — let's see — 5 feet and 6 inches, one can surmise the attacker, who came from behind with a club or some other blunt object, is above 6 feet, at the very least. He is a Chinese man because the Red Dragons trusts only Chinese men to do its assassinations, and the trademark of the gang is a blow to the back of the head." He sniffs dispassionately. "A rather asinine choice of trademark, if you ask me."

Lestrade huffs a laugh. "You got a better idea, I'm guessing?"

Sherlock returns his smile, though it is far more guarded than Lestrade's open, boyish grin. "That would be a trade secret, Detective."

He turns to leave, but glances over his shoulder to see that Molly is still standing by the body, her expression pensive as she considers something. "Something the matter, Dr. Hooper?"

She scratches the side of her neck — a nervous tick, it seems — and looks up, her face flushing as soon as their gazes meet. "Hmm? Oh, I — it's nothing, only…" She mumbles something beneath her breath.

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at her. "It was apparently enough to hold your interest, so let's hear it."

Molly flushes even further, but she says it herself, her voice firm. "I don't think that it was an assassination over missing product."

Sherlock stops short. How… _unexpected_.

For one — this might be his first time at the morgue, but he has interacted with other medical professionals before, not to mention the others in Lestrade's unit — and none of them have attempted to challenge him on a deduction before. None of them are competent enough, save for Lestrade on occasion, to form their own conclusions based on the evidence; they generally tag along, gaping at Sherlock's ideas without bothering to assess his statements for veracity, and either blindly agree to whatever he says or reject it because it's coming from him. Given their moniker of "London's finest," Sherlock finds it more than disconcerting.

For another, Dr. Molly Hooper (aged 28, English, more specifically from the Midlands, educated at University College Medical School, graduated early, has a rough relationship with her mother but close to her ( _recently deceased? dying?_ precariously alive, at any rate) father, recently adopted a cat with a temper, lives thirty to forty minutes away from Barts, ate a homemade poppyseed muffin this morning for breakfast) was not the kind to disagree with someone just because she didn't like them, as was usually the case when someone disagreed with Sherlock. And judging by the color of her cheeks, the dilation of her pupils, and the inability to meet his gaze head-on, she certainly didn't not like him.

Which made it even more interesting that she would disagree with him — overcoming her obvious natural reticence, her physical attraction to him, and her tendency to doubt herself in order to make a point.

How interesting.

Sherlock blinks. "No?" He turns and clasps his hands behind his back. "Elaborate."

"Don't interrogate the poor woman, you daft bastard," Lestrade mutters from behind him. Sherlock pauses and reassesses the data — she a shy woman, he a tall and solemn man to whom she is attracted — Lestrade is right, bluntness isn't the way here. He softens his stance and tries to make his face a little more welcoming.

But Molly surprises him again; she smiles, unfazed. "It's true that there were signs of cardiac and kidney damage, and it's entirely possible that it was due to cocaine abuse. But that type of damage takes years to develop, and there were no external signs that indicate habitual usage of the drug, so I didn't think it was cocaine. My conclusion was that she was suffering from colchicine toxicity."

She rifles through the cart next to the body and produces a clipboard that she passes to him. Sherlock glances it over quickly, then hands it back. "Like I said, I found a vegetable alkaloid in her lungs. I took a sample for testing as soon as I found it, just to make sure. I wasn't sure if it was colchicine or cytisine, but the lab confirmed it was the former, and her symptoms are certainly consistent with that. I don't know how it got into her system, but it definitely built up enough that she would have had some symptoms, possibly a fever, diarrhea, severe abdominal pains. If she hadn't been killed in the interim, her kidney, lungs, and eventually the brain would have broken down completely. Without treatment, colchicine toxicity can lead to death within days."

She clasps her hands together and smiles at him again, cheerful despite the topic. "I guess I misspoke earlier, then. It's entirely possible that she was still killed by an assassin — that kind of thing is really your department more than mine, Greg — but if the motivation was that she stole product for herself, I don't think that her symptoms provide any supporting evidence of that."

Sherlock stares at her, then closes his eyes with furrowed brows, the cogs in his mind whirring furiously. Lestrade rolls his eyes and nods his thanks to Molly. "Right, that's probably all we'll get him from for a while. Thanks for your help, Molly, really appreciate it."

She glances at Sherlock, confused, but waves away the thanks good-naturedly. "My pleasure, Greg! And — it was nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock," he mutters automatically. His eyes spring open, then narrow at Molly. "It's Sherlock. Colchicine. The Red Dragons didn't kill her for loss of product, they killed her as a diversion. _Genius_. Of course." He suddenly bolts forward, seizing Molly's hands so quickly that she drops the clipboard to the floor with a clatter. He pumps them up and down, his face split open in a grin. "Thank you, Dr. Hooper! You turned an open-and-shut case into a very interesting little puzzle indeed!"

Molly only stares at him, her mouth agape and her cheeks aflame at their proximity, but Sherlock's childlike enthusiasm startles her into grinning right back. "Er — no problem! Glad I could be of service!"

With a hum, Sherlock drops her hands, turns on his well-dressed heel, and marches right out of the morgue, leaving Lestrade to nod a harried goodbye to Molly and scramble after his wayward consultant, mumbling darkly.

Molly breathes in deeply. "Right, then." She turns back to the examination table, dazed, but before she can lift so much as a finger, the door bangs open again and she whirls around to see Sherlock striding towards her. He looks very excited, which — Molly hasn't known the man long, but she can already recognize that that is a concerning development.

"Dr. Hooper —"

"Molly," she corrects faintly.

"Molly, then," Sherlock concedes, eyes glinting, "would you mind terribly if I left my contact information with you, so that you may inform me of any further developments with the colchicine lab? And also, if I may be so presumptuous, to let me know of any other interesting cases that come your way?" He pauses, then adds, his grin almost maniacal, "I have what you may call a vested interest."

"Oh! Y-yes, of course." Molly searches her pockets for pen and paper, nearly drops it in her haste, and then passes it to Sherlock, who scribbles a cell phone number down and hands the slip back. "Would you like my —"

"I already have your number. Text is preferable, but call if you must. Good afternoon."

He bobs his head in an abbreviated bow, then disappears as quickly as he appeared, leaving behind a quite bewildered Molly in his wake.

As they walk down the hall back to the elevator, Lestrade claps Sherlock on the back, looking both pleased and puzzled all at once. "Good job there, mate! You could've practically passed for normal!" A thought occurs to him. "Although, what did you ask her for in the end just there?"

Sherlock shrugs. "I merely asked to be kept abreast of any developments in the lab, as well as with any other labs that may be of interest."

Lestrade stops short and stares at Sherlock with a dawning horror. "You did what?"

Sherlock stops as well and frowns back at the older man, confused. "I left her my number in case something interesting happens. Are you developing hearing problems, Lestrade? That's not unusual for a man your age, but nevertheless you should get it checked out. It may begin to interfere with your already shaky police efforts."

Lestrade ignores this jab, quite graciously, and instead glances over his shoulder back towards the morgue. "That poor, sweet girl," he mutters. He feels almost a wistful sense of kinship for Molly, now that Sherlock has set his sights on her. "She's got no idea what's coming, does she."

Sherlock rolls his eyes in response and continues on his way back to the elevator. "Spare me the histrionics, Lestrade. She seems perfectly capable of a little scientific collaboration. In fact, your sycophants over at the Yard could likely learn a thing or two from Molly."

Lestrade tries, unsuccessfully, to smother a grin. "Oh, so she's _Molly_ now, is she?"

Sherlock glares at him, but luckily for Lestrade, his mobile rings before Sherlock can say anything. He does spare a moment to waggle his eyebrows at Sherlock suggestively before answering.

"Lestrade. Yeah. Anything turn up?... Huh. Right, send me the address, I'll be along in a mo'." He flips the phone shut, then nods to Sherlock. "Art robbery at a flat in Brixton. All the paintings from the victim's private collection were replaced with the same copy of a 1957 Soviet propaganda print. No leads so far. Interested?"

"Very," Sherlock replies.

The case turns out to be an exceedingly interesting one, with ties to Russian mafia and human trafficking rings and one odd, aggressively phallic sculpture, and in the heat of the investigation, all thoughts of Molly Hooper are forgotten for the time being.

* * *

That night, while researching the chemical composition of paints available in mid-century Russia, Sherlock is pulled out of his case-focused haze by a small, polite beep from his phone.

 _hi, it's molly from st. barts! hopefully i have the right number, it was nice meeting you today — Molly_

It takes him a second to place the name amidst his case-related frenzy, but he gets there. He stares at his screen for a moment, considering it. All lowercase (quiet, prefers to escape notice) but good grammar, lacking any typical texting lingo (meticulous, to the point of perfectionism). And she texted as a follow-up even though he has her number, so she likes to check up on things. Either that, or she's hoping this will lead to a conversation with him.

Which is certainly remarkable. Aside from cases, Lestrade never texts him just because, except for occasional checkups to see that he's still alive. Idle conversation is not exactly his area.

He goes to put the phone away and turns back to his laptop, but he pauses and looks at the phone again. Something — some strange impulse he can't name — compels him to reach for the phone again.

 _You have the correct number. Your assistance was useful today. I look forward to working together in the future. SH_

It is very stilted and strange and he can't think for the life of him what he means by this, except that he does, apparently, mean it. He does actually look forward to seeing how else Molly Hooper can be of use; today certainly proved that.

Before he can think it over too much, the text is on its way. A minute passes and the phone chirps again.

 _speaking of, do you think you could come in later this week? there's a case of arsenic toxicity that seemed off, could use a second opinion — Molly_

 _I'll be in tomorrow. SH_

With that he tucks the cell back into his pocket and returns to his research. In the back of his mind, he makes a mental note to add Molly Hooper to his mind palace, in the same wing where he puts Lestrade and his closer associates from the homeless network. He has a feeling their association will prove useful very soon.

He ends up working through the night on the case. He does not think of her again, but a slight smile lingers on his face for a considerable time after.

* * *

I know the case doesn't really make any sense but I did do some research on cocaine abuse and colchicine poisoning so that I don't sound _completely_ inane, and honestly some of the cases from the actual show are way nuttier than this (a _boomerang_ as a murder weapon? really, Moffat?) so put away your brains and just come with me on this marvelous adventure, yes?


End file.
